


The Words We Say

by agentmoppet



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Established Relationship, Happy Ending, Insecurity, M/M, Post-Hogwarts, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-17
Updated: 2017-11-17
Packaged: 2019-02-03 13:23:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12749178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agentmoppet/pseuds/agentmoppet
Summary: Harry knows with certainty that he and Draco Malfoy are in love. Until one day, he doesn't, and then the only thing he knows is that he is losing him.





	The Words We Say

**Author's Note:**

  * For [GoldenTruth813](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoldenTruth813/gifts).
  * Inspired by [A Matter of Opinion](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12310521) by [GoldenTruth813](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoldenTruth813/pseuds/GoldenTruth813). 



> Janel I hope you like this! I was so unbelievably flattered and excited when you messaged me and asked me to remix your fic from Harry's point of view :D It made my week. 
> 
> I was going to ask you to beta, to make sure that I did it right, but then I thought it's also really nice to get a surprise gift because you hadn't known I had started on it yet... so I went with the gift option, and I'm just hoping it's what you were after :)

Harry wakes, slowly, to the sound of movement in the kitchen downstairs. By the time the last remnants of sleep have fallen away, he already has a smile on his face. For someone who spent most of his formative years waking up in a cold sweat, or curled so tightly into a defensive ball that he didn’t even know the sun had risen, it’s a feat that leaves him just a little shocked, even though it happens all the time now.

He always thought that love would feel like fireworks and sex. And it does, but it also feels like a tiny candle burning gently inside his chest, and the littlest things make it burn the brightest. It’s the sight of Draco resting on the couch in a bathrobe and warm socks; it’s the concentration on his brow as he reads one of his potions journals; and it’s the sound of his quiet movements in the kitchen as he prepares their breakfast. Harry never thought those things would be so important to him, and yet they’re the parts of his life he treasures the most.

When he stumbles into the kitchen, eyes still heavy, the sight of Draco nearly takes his breath away. Straight after the war, Draco went through an intense phase where he wore nothing but Muggle fashion; it was one of the things that made Harry stop and pay attention to him. Harry couldn’t even attempt to name the labels Draco is wearing, but the tight cut of his jeans coupled with the rolled-up sleeves of his shirt make him want to grab hold of his man and drag him straight back up to bed.

With a tremendous amount of effort, he takes the paper Draco passes him and sits down at the table. It isn’t long before he throws the paper away again, good mood evaporating and taking with it the pleasant cloud of lethargy that usually sits with him until his first cup of tea.

“Oh for fucks sake,” he mumbles, leaning back and scrubbing at his face. “S’too early for that rubbish.”

He focuses on his tea while Draco scans the paper, confused and unsure why Harry is so upset. It’s hard to explain, even now. It’s only a photo after all, and like Draco says, it’s a good one. He looks commanding, intimidating even, but also happy. Privately, he would admit that it is probably an accurate representation for once, but that’s exactly the problem.

The wizarding world, for all that he loves it, has always invaded his most private of spaces, and yet it never once tries to understand him. Every so often, it will find some piece of him that’s true—a photo or a quote—and it will take it and expose it for all the wizarding world to see. And that wizarding world, true to form, will completely fucking misunderstand it.

He can just hear the commentary now: oh, look at Mr. Potter, he looks so stressed; Harry Potter puts on a brave smile for the cameras, but we can see right through it to the tormented soul within; oh, poor Mr. Potter really needs to take a holiday.

He holds back a sigh, since he doesn’t want to bring down Draco’s mood with his, and he’s only being picky. So what if the wizarding world doesn’t bother to actually understand him, to care about him at all?

That’s why he has Draco.

*

The first sign that something has changed starts with lasagne.

Harry loves lasagne, and he loves Wednesdays because that’s when he gets to cook it. He’s not sure if it’s the fact that it’s such a simple dish—something the Dursleys never allowed him to cook because it was messy—and so it feels almost like a rebellion. Maybe it’s just because he likes cheese. Or, maybe it’s because of the look on Draco’s face when he sits down, glass of red wine in hand, and tries to not to smile at the plate in front of him.

He wonders if Draco ever ate lasagne at the Manor; somehow, he doubts it. There’s always something a little sheepish in his expression when he eats it, like he’s expecting his father to walk in at any moment. Even after all these years, the sheer normalcy of it seems to give Draco a little thrill, and Harry lives for those moments.

This time, though, Draco suddenly asks, “Don’t you ever get sick of lasagne?”

Harry stares at him, confused. “I like lasagne.”

Draco knows he likes lasagne. It’s Harry’s favourite food, just like Draco’s favourite food is filet mignon; they laugh about it all the time. It’s like the perfect representation of the two of them. They are so opposing in their tastes that no one in their right mind would have thought they would work out. And yet here they are; or at least, so Harry had thought.

“Draco, what is this about?”

“It’s about the blasted lasagne, Harry.”

Harry’s mind begins to fill with a strange, buzzing sort of static that he hasn’t heard since he was a child. He shoves it away.

“Listen, Draco—”

“Just answer the question.”

The argument devolves into yelling, and Harry feels himself growing more and more distant, almost like he’s hovering behind himself, looking down at the two of them. He doesn’t know why. It’s not as though he and Draco haven’t fought before; their entire youth revolved around it, after all. But this feels different. This feels real.

He comes back to himself that night, when Draco slips in beside him in their bed. He curls himself in close, breathing in the scent of Draco’s neck, and reminding himself of the only certain thing he’s ever known: they are in love.

*

Something is wrong with Draco. Harry knows it that morning when the sounds coming from the kitchen aren’t the quiet, content sounds of their normal routine; they’re the harried sounds of someone under stress. He tip-toes down the stairs and hovers in the doorway, watching as Draco throws together their breakfasts while hardly looking at what he’s doing. He pauses in front of Harry’s tea for several minutes, before throwing the teabag in the mug and walking away.

Harry watches him, and something old and forgotten constricts tightly in his chest. He hasn’t felt like this in a long time, but he must have been a fool to think it was gone forever. The longer he watches, the more the feeling creeps through his entire body. His face tingles with a strange kind of heat, and he quickly leaves and hides in the bathroom before Draco sees him.

It didn’t escape his notice that Draco kept looking back at the Prophet, where it sat idly on the table. Harry can’t for the life of him think why Draco would care about the old rag.

Draco stopped reading the paper when it kept publishing ridiculous lies about the pair of them. But if he’s started reading it again, maybe he’s stopped caring about the articles?

Or maybe he’s looking for a different kind of article all together.

*

“Don’t you think you’re overreacting, mate?” Ron asks, wide-eyed as he stares at Harry over the top of his beer. “I mean, you both seem pretty happy to me.”

“Do we?” Harry stares into his glass. “Maybe it’s just been me all this time.”

“Mate.” Ron reaches across the table and grasps Harry’s wrist, forcing him to look up. “We’ve been through this.”

Ron knows about the cupboard. He knows all the many ways that Harry struggles, even to this day, to grow beyond it.

“You just had a fight,” he continues. “That’s normal.”

The sincerity and love in his eyes is too much; Harry looks away, but he doesn’t draw back his wrist.

“I know,” he says after a moment. “But, he’s Draco Malfoy, Ron. He’s used to glamorous parties and expensive holidays. I mean, the Prophet was open to the society and gossip pages; what if he’s bored of me? What if he misses the world I dragged him away from?”

“Come on, Harry. Do you really think that Draco sodding Malfoy would stay in a relationship he hated?” Ron asks, giving Harry’s wrist a little shake and grinning.

Harry’s stomach sinks. “No.” His voice is weak. “No, I don’t.”

*

Harry decides he’s being ridiculous; if Draco didn’t like something, he would tell him. So, he goes about his life as if nothing has changed. And soon, it begins to feel as though nothing has. Draco doesn’t bring up another argument, and although he still seems distracted, mostly they are fine.

Until he arrives home one day and falls arse over tit over the couch. When he stands up, rubbing his face where he caught it on the mantle and swearing, he realises the entire room has been rearranged. He stares around, incapable of speech for several long seconds until Draco rushes in.

“What the fuck happened to the furniture?” He doesn’t mean to say it like that, but his heart is racing, and the impromptu date from last Friday has suddenly settled into an awful sort of context.

He had thought it a romantic gesture, even if he was too tired to appreciate it properly, but now he is forced to look at things another way. People who are trying to save their relationships often change things. It starts small, and before you know it, everything you once knew is turned on its head. That's if you manage to save it at all.

Harry didn't even know his relationship needed saving.

For a moment, he thinks about telling Draco all the things he was never able to explain: the cupboard, his fear of small spaces that prevents him using the Floo, the way Aunt Petunia would scream and scream if he so much as put a plate back in the wrong place. Draco might still want to change the furniture around, but at least he’ll know why Harry doesn’t take it well.

Then he tunes back into the conversation and realises how upset and guilty Draco looks, and he can’t say anything at all.

“No, it’s fine,” he says, looking around the room and trying not to feel like his world is falling apart. “I mean… if you want it like this.”

“I can move it back.”

It’s too late for that. Harry was an idiot not to see it coming.

“No, it’s fine.”

*

 

Harry starts the argument this time. But it isn’t about lasagne; it’s about tea.

By the time he manages to tear himself away from the expression on Draco’s face, he is late. Even still, he doesn’t go to the office. He beelines for the bathroom and stares at himself in the cracked mirror above the sink. His face looks lined and haggard. It hadn’t seemed to matter before, when he thought his looks weren’t that important, but now he’s starting to wonder—should he be making more of an effort? Or is it too late even for that?

He’s never been someone who argued over tea before. Sure, he prefers things the way he likes them, but he’s fine with a little bit of change here and there. He doesn’t mind trying new things, even if the new tea Draco bought him was absolutely horrid. But the last few weeks have been nothing _but_ new things. Draco doesn’t seem satisfied with anything anymore, and Harry wonders when the penny will drop and Draco will realise he isn’t satisfied with Harry at all.

He needs to fight this. He needs to stand up and yell and scream and fight for his man.

But he’s not… He can’t…

He’s not someone who can change like that. He is who he is. It took him a long time to come to terms with that, and if that’s no longer who Draco wants him to be, then there is only one answer. It’s just not the answer Harry wants it to be.

*

When he sees the sex toys laid out on the bed, his mouth goes dry. It’s not as if he doesn’t want to… He’s open to it, and anything that Draco does will be sexy as hell, he knows that. He’d even be lying if he said the thought of it didn’t arouse him, but… He knows how this goes. This is the last step when people are trying to salvage something beyond repair.

If he fails this, he might lose Draco all together. And no matter what he thought before, that there was no solution within his power to save them, he can’t bring himself to let go.

He picks up one of the toys at random, feels the weight of it in his hand and closes his eyes at the rush of want that suddenly fills him. Maybe this won’t be so bad. Maybe this will be what they need to rekindle… whatever it was that they lost.

“And you— _you_ want this?” He needs to make sure. Draco has never asked for anything like this in all their time together; he has to know that it’s what he wants.

“I thought it might be fun to spice things up a bit. Don’t you think?” He pushes Harry back down onto the bed.

“I didn’t know things needed spicing up?” The uncertainty in his own voice is so painful he has to close his eyes, but Draco doesn’t seem to even notice.

“Good things can still always be better. Besides, don’t you want to know what it feels like with me fucking you and sucking you at the same time?”

Harry’s fear melts away as he’s overcome with arousal. He grabs onto Draco and pulls him down on top of him, their bodies moulding together so perfectly that Harry feels himself growing instantly harder. He slides his hands down Draco’s back, mapping the lines of his body as if they weren’t already committed to memory.

Everything feels right when it’s the two of them like this. Draco teases him, his lips and tongue as wicked when they’re on his skin as when they’re whispering filthy words into his ear. He loves this side of Draco—the push and pull between his impeccable manners and the fierce desire he hides so well.

They slide together, the room filling with the sound of their soft moans. It always starts the same: they try to stay quiet, years of dormitory life leaving a lasting impression, before their surroundings fade and they lose themselves in each other. Draco’s voice abandons its aristocratic edge, breaking into harsher sounds as he loses control, and Harry forgets the constant mantra to be quiet, out of sight. He wants to be seen by Draco, wants to be filled by him.

Harry loves the familiarity. He loves the way their two bodies press together in the same patterns, the same routines, while every breath is simultaneously new and undiscovered. It’s exhilarating.

“Just don’t move,” Draco suddenly says, just as Harry is contemplating flipping him over and exploring the valleys of his neck. “I have one more surprise. I think you’re going to like this one.”

“Mmm, but what if I just want you?”

Draco laughs, and Harry gives in. He does as Draco says, edging up the bed and lying still. He gives Draco a wink and closes his eyes.

The next thing he knows, something light touches his wrists and ankles. He laughs for a moment, wondering if Draco has decided to explore something with feathers—he wouldn’t mind that at all—and then the thing draws tight, and his whole body goes stiff.

“Draco.” His voice cracks, and his eyes open wide and snap to Draco’s.

His control is slipping away, and the edge of panic is rising, rising, rising until his vision has almost completely blurred out. His arms are bound above his head, his legs drawn taught by ropes, and no matter how hard he struggles, he can't break free.

“Draco. Take it off, right now. Please.” He is begging—nothing like the usual flushed pleas the two of them gladly trade—and it’s not only his sanity that is slipping away, but everything that was still tying him to Draco.

He can’t do this, he can’t. If this is what Draco wants, then Harry is not the man to give it to him.

He doesn’t remember what happens next, only knows that he is screaming and Draco is shaking, and he would do anything to take it all back. But he knows he can’t. Everything has changed.

*

“I’ve lost him,” he tells Ron, before promptly sculling his beer.

Ron’s eyebrows rise, but he says nothing, just waits.

“I asked him—” His voice breaks. He clears his throat and tries again. “I asked him why, why he was doing it all. It’s over, Ron.”

“He said he didn’t want to be with you anymore?” Ron’s voice is gentle and soothing, full of the pain that he feels for his best friend.

Harry shakes his head. “He didn’t have to. He didn’t say anything. He couldn’t give me one reason why he keeps trying to _spice up our relationship._ ”

Ron’s face crumples in sympathy. “I’m sorry, mate. Can I tell Hermione what’s happened, or do you want to tell her yourself?”

Harry waves a hand. “Doesn’t matter. Do what you like. ‘S over now. I’ve lost him.”

*

He wonders how long it will take before Draco packs his things and leaves. As he stares at the ticking clock above the door at work, he thinks perhaps he should prepare himself for the likelihood that Draco isn’t there when he gets home. It would be the easiest way for both of them.

The door to the office where they are having their weekly meeting bursts open, and, as if summoned by Harry’s thoughts, Draco bursts in. For a moment, Harry hopes. He hopes and hopes and hopes, and he knows it’s written on his face, and he knows he’s a right git for it, but he can’t help himself. It’s who he is.

“I love you!”

Draco’s words cut through the silence, and the room fades away. Harry is dimly aware of everyone leaving the meeting, but he can’t tear his eyes away from the expression on Draco’s face. He can’t see anything but the way Draco is staring at him, bursting at the seams with love and affection. He was a fool to ever doubt it.

“I'm sorry, Harry. Fuck, I'm so sorry. I love you. I love us, everything about us. I love our routines and predictability.”

Something Harry didn’t know was missing slots back into place, and he leans forward so that their foreheads are pressed together. “So do I.” He doesn’t want the answer, doesn’t want the proof that they didn’t know each other as well as he thought—that he _missed_ something—but he has to ask. “Why did you want to change everything?”

Draco takes a deep breath, and Harry braces himself.

“There was an article in the Prophet, and it said we were in a slump, that you were getting bored. I know it's stupid, but the way it was written felt like if it wasn't true now it could be someday and before I knew it I just kept reading those blasted articles and it took me to a bad place. I thought... I thought I was past that and I let my insecurity almost ruin us... I let it make me think I needed to fix us when we were perfect as we were, and I am so fucking sorry, Harry.”

The words seem to echo in Harry’s ears as he tries to process what Draco is saying, and then his heart swells with such an overwhelming burst of love and affection for this man before him that his knees feel weak and he nearly stumbles from it. Draco’s answer isn’t what he expected at all, and he is relieved. There isn’t suddenly some part of Draco that Harry hadn’t known existed, that Harry couldn’t satisfy. Draco is still his.

He realises that if he had looked closer at Draco instead of getting caught up in his own head, maybe he could have seen it coming. Maybe he wouldn’t have missed the insecurity that he should have known was there. But his own fears prevented him from that—fears that Draco had no way of predicting. He draws Draco closer and decides that it’s time he let Draco in on them, before they find themselves in another mess like this.

He shoves the thought aside for a moment and pulls back. Draco is still looking at him like it might be true, and Harry has spent enough time around Pansy Parkinson to know the only form of reassurance Draco responds to.

“You’re a fucking idiot. You know that, right?”

Draco grins with relief. “Surprisingly not the first time someone has told me that today.”

Harry lets himself be soothed by the gentle words they whisper to each other and just sinks into his lover’s arms. Soon he is surrounded by the smell, the sound, the warmth of Draco, and it’s exactly where he’s meant to be.

**Author's Note:**

> Please go check out the [work this is remixed from](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12310521)!! It's wooonderful!


End file.
